Author: Laura Packard

So, I told y’all last time we chatted I moved, right? Well, not towns but up the road to the north part of the island. It’s quite beautiful, rustic even. Dusty horse trails, backgrounds of lush tonal greens, low hanging live oak branches clothed generously in layer after layer of spider webbed Spanish moss and invading magnolia leaves.

I move a lot.             No biggie, really. I can handle it. So, can most of us . . . those in my family, that is.             The only one who has a problem with it stands about two feet tall and is somewhat prickly even though said member lives the high life in a pretty cool, retro glazed ceramic pottery bowl with ambient lighting and nightly jazz sessions next to a Boze speaker via Spotify.

I don’t like getting older, the older I get.             Far from it. I used to wax philosophical about gravity’s pull is wisdom gained. Not anymore, seeing as I don’t know how much lower my eyelids can go. However, I do admire those who have embraced the aging process with vigor and glee despite whatever may ail them.

You know how April showers bring May flowers? Well, spring air brings deep cleaning. And spring cleaning may also bring a deeper insight into how you are a mere heel dig, triple step, and boot scoot away from crazy.

I have two words for you. Sliced ketchup.

It’s almost April, Lowcountry folks. And we all know what that means. Spring breakers descend like sand gnats during a dead ocean breeze. Azaleas pop, sizzle and drop while the dogwood blooms slowly open as an offering for lingering warmth and alfresco dining over glasses filled with chilled chardonnay peppered in drowned mosquito wings.

A step in the right direction. One step forward, two steps back. Step on it. Out of step. False step. Step by step. One step at a time. Or even one step ahead.

I hit my head on the rear tailgate door. Hard. I saw stars and a Carl’s burger. Not sure what that meant but I managed to keep consciousness. Next, my grocery bag, slightly wet with who knows what, ripped, the contents spilled all over the floor and then rolled under the car, refusing to come out.

I just turned a gingerbread man upside down and made a reindeer, y’€™all. For real. And not to brag too much or anything, but he had gorgeously delicious Oreo crusted eyes, a shiny, red M&M buttoned nose and a scarf made out of edible snow. It’€™s as if my new spirit animal forever now and will always be Dancer, Prancer, Donner, and Vixen combined with every single Sugar Plum Fairy all caffeinated and lined up in a neat, pixie color-coded row . . . like magic.

I don’€™t remember a lot of things. What time it is. What side of the car my gas tank is on.